


Give Me One More Shot (I Swear That I Love You)

by heroinesong



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Serum, Slow Burn, Super Soldier Serum
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 18:30:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4315755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heroinesong/pseuds/heroinesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>UPDATE: 5/8/2016: This fic will most likely not continue, but I didn't plan any form of a sad ending, so you're free to picture whatever happy ending you like :) xx</p><p>One super soldier is a miracle. Two is an affront to the natural order of things.</p><p>But Peggy Carter has never been one to follow the status quo.</p><p>When Peggy and Steve reunite from nearly a century apart, the adjustment is harder than either of them expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

03 JAN 2013

A pair of high heels clicked against the concrete floor beneath their soles, and a pair of red lips pursed around a cigarette. They tightened as their owner sucked in a deep breath, and a chuckle could be heard in the darkness of the room.

“They say those things’ll kill you.”

Peggy turned and raised an eyebrow, her red lips curling into a half-smile as her eyes locked with those of Nick Fury, recently instated director of S.H.I.E.L.D. “They also say a few hundred bullet wounds over the course of a lifetime will kill you, but I proved that wrong a long time ago,” she replied. She took another long drag of her cigarette, and opened her mouth, moving her tongue so she could blow three smoke rings into the air.

“Good trick,” Fury said, sliding a file across the table at Peggy, watching her with slight curiosity. She was nothing like he’d been told. He had expected a much smaller person, slimmer. Perhaps it was his preconceived notions of what undercover agents usually looked like. It was easy to blend when you looked like everyone else, but Peggy Carter - as he should have known - was no ordinary undercover agent.

“This is yours,” he continued, watching as red-painted fingernails flipped through the pages. His recently gained status meant he was one of four living people to know this woman even existed. He let his eyes wander, catching red lips and eyes that sparkled with youth. 

Peggy raised an eyebrow and looked up at him, sizing him up. From what little she was able to gather on him, he seemed like a good fit for the director’s position. Fair, but incredibly intimidating and a bit rough around the edges. She could appreciate that in a person. “I assume I’m to be working for the usual two years?” she asked, tapping her ashes into her left hand. It was a habit she couldn’t seem to break. Leaving things behind did not often end well for people who needed to disappear at the drop of a hat. 

“Two years and seven months, to be exact.” he replied. “This organization is a pain in my fucking ass, to put it lightly. Infiltration has never been successful in the past.”

Peggy smiled despite her best efforts to keep a stiff upper lip, and nodded. “I’m well aware. I’ve come across them before.” Her accent lilted gently as more smoke poured from her lips, and she looked up at Fury through thick eyelashes. “Then again, you haven’t had my help before now.” She brushed a short brown curl behind her ear, then stepped towards Fury, letting a bit of light illuminate her features.

Fury tilted his head back, hardly able to see her face anymore. “Tell me something.” he said, watching her carefully. “How does a big battle axe like you just disappear like you do?” In an effort to make his question more direct, he gestured at her arms and shoulders, making note of her figure. She was fairly barrel-chested for a member of the fairer sex, with hands that could likely crush a man’s skull as easily as they mended socks.

“Well.” Peggy looked down at him before dusting a bit of lint off one of her sleeves. “Perhaps I just have a talent for it, Director Fury.” She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling with a youthful mischief that betrayed her true age. “And don’t ask how I know your name.”

“I assume you read it on the file because you’re not an idiot.” He replied. “Although, they didn’t tell me much about you when I was put here. Mostly that you were big and loyal. Big was an understatement.”

Peggy laughed, a melodic sound that practically danced in the air around them both. “You can safely make the assumption that the original and rebooted Project Rebirth was probably better suited to those with high levels of estrogen.” She glanced down at herself, then at Fury. “It seems you and I will not be seeing each other for quite awhile, Director.”

“I hope not. Fail this and I’m demoting you to whatever the hell is below the rank you occupy. But,” he raised an eyebrow. “Your replacement has been on the decline as of late. It’s safe to assume you’ll be returning under a new name as soon as you’re willing.”

Peggy turned to leave, ignoring the latter part of his sentence, and laughed as she walked towards the door. “Oh, Director Fury.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Demoting a founding agent and director would be in bad taste, don’t you think?”

She closed the door before he could reply, leaving the dim room in deafening silence.

Fury smirked.


	2. Chapter 2

16 APR 2015

Steve’s chest heaved as he passed Sam on the jogging track again, and he barely had the energy to breathe, let alone shout his trademark taunt to his newest - and dearest - friend. He pushed himself through four more laps, knowing his body needed to burn off the energy if he wanted any chance at sleeping that night.

Both men had made a new commitment to their own fitness since the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D, largely because Steve had little else to do while everything was being sorted, except for finding Bucky. But most of his search options had been exhausted, and he was beginning to lose hope of ever seeing his best friend again. So, he turned to running as a distraction, for his own peace of mind. Sam, on the other hand, did it for health reasons. As Sam often teased him, it kept them both young. 

Steve collapsed against a tree and sighed as he downed half his water bottle, letting the ice inside it rattle around. He wiped his brow, hearing Sam’s labored breath beside him. He turned to look at him, grinning when he noticed the other’s flushed cheeks. “Well,” he panted, looking Sam up and down before tracing his fingers down his bicep. “Look at that.” He took another long drink, only pausing to come up for air.

“Don’t say it, man,” Sam said, his tone vaguely threatening. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“Looks like I’m… On your left.”

“Fuck. Yourself.”

Steve laughed between breaths, despite the fact that Sam was currently trying to punch his shoulder right out of its socket. “Is there a bug breathing on me?” he said between heaving breaths. “I feel like there’s a bug breathing on my shoulder.”

“Fuck… yourself… you… asshole.” Sam punched Steve’s arm with every word, and set his jaw, trying not to laugh himself. “You keep pulling that shit and I’ll knock your teeth out.”

“I wonder if they’d grow back,” Steve mused. “Do you think I could make more teeth, with the serum and all?”

Sam rolled his eyes, and sipped his own water, grateful for how cold it was. “No, teeth don’t grow back. Even when you’re pumped full of that unholy serum shit.”

“It’s not unholy,” Steve said. “I go to church.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sam laughed and shoved him a little before moving to stand on his own again, ready to return home. “I wish I could be a fly on the wall for that confession.”

The two bickered the entire way home, each oblivious to the world around them. Steve watched Sam with great interest, wondering how he managed to keep up with Steve without looking like an absolute mess.

Their time together was short, however, and a text tone on Steve’s phone interrupted them during their traditional post-run snack.

“Huh.” The number on the text belonged to one of the nurses from Peggy’s retirement home. He’d kept in contact with several of them, wanting to make sure his ailing friend was well taken care of. He’d only visited her twice since waking up, and he knew she wanted to see him more often, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

His eyes scanned the text, and his heart dropped into his stomach, an icy feeling spreading from his diaphragm all the way out to his limbs. “I have to go,” he said abruptly, setting his water and sandwich down and turning to leave. He ignored Sam’s calls after him, hardly able to hear them through the blood pumping in his ears. He was halfway down the block before he realized he’d left his phone at home. He left it.

——  
Steve arrived at Peggy’s nursing home practically drenched in sweat and panting, his legs aching for the first time since he received the serum. He had run so fast and so far, there was no telling how much pain he would be in later that evening. Though, he could hardly focus on pain as he slipped past the nurses and residents in the halls, making his way to Peggy’s room.

He stopped in front of her door, and his heart felt as it had when he first struck the waters of the Arctic: cold, afraid, and utterly alone.

A nurse was folding blankets, and a small box sat on the nightstand, holding all the belongings of the woman who had lain in that bed for years. She looked up at Steve, and upon seeing the look on his face, paused in her duties. “Did you know her?” she asked, gently touching Steve’s shoulder.

Steve didn’t speak for a long minute, and the nurse almost repeated her question before he responded.

“Yes. I knew her.” He clenched his fists. “Is she…”

“She passed away an hour ago.” she said, gently squeezing Steve’s shoulder. “It was very peaceful. She wasn’t in any pain.”

Steve wished he could say the same for himself. And yet, he also felt a sort of relief. The Peggy he’d known had died long ago; this woman had hardly remembered her own name half the time, let alone that they had lived and loved each other as passionately as they had. His Peggy was lost in the forties, running her fingers through her pin curls and teasing him about his dancing. He thought of her for a moment, then swallowed hard, pain radiating through his chest. “I have to go.” he said, echoing his words to sam, and turned away from the nurse and and stepped out of the room. There was nothing there for him now. 

He left before she could say anything else, furiously wiping at his eyes as he made his way outside. She couldn’t be dead, he reasoned, though in the back of his mind he knew it was true. Otherwise, why would he be running from the place that had plunged grief like a knife into his heart and twisted?

He wiped at his eyes again, determined to at least find somewhere private before surrendering to grief. He managed to find his way into a small sandwich shop, and quickly went into the men’s room, locking the door behind him. He closed the lid on the toilet and collapsed onto it, not caring whether or not it would take damage under his weight. His mind wandered back to his life, his real life, before he was thrown into the modern world without so much as a hand to hold.

An image of Peggy, young, smiling and beautiful, swirled in his head. Despite all the good he had done in life, and all she had accomplished in her years at S.H.I.E.L.D., it still felt as though he had been dealt a bad hand. They had never gotten the chance they deserved, and now he would never even lay eyes on her again.

With a shaky breath, Steve reached up to press his palms against his face, remembering something Sam had once told him. Crying didn’t make him weak; it simply proved he was alive.


	3. Chapter 3

09 APR 1944

Steve took Peggy’s hand and held her close as they listened to the radio, closing his eyes as she swayed. “This doesn’t count as you teaching me to dance, you know.” he said, and felt Peggy giggle against his chest. “I’m serious!” He feigned offense, raising an eyebrow at her. “This isn’t dancing. It’s swaying back and forth.”

“Of course it is,” she replied, humming along with the music as she swayed with him. “As long as your feet don’t move, it isn’t dancing. Is that right?” She rested her cheek on his chest, smiling as the clicks and pops of the radio interrupted the song that played. “For such a smart man, you can be downright moronic.”

Steve flushed from his neck to his ears, and Peggy giggled, able to feel the heat coming off of his skin. “Go soak your head, Rogers. You could fry an egg on it,” she said, secretly pleased when he wrapped an arm around her waist. 

“I will not go soak my head,” he said, turning to press his nose into her hair. He drank in the scent of her curls, lightly perfumed and twisted up into perfect rolls. He sighed softly, letting himself hold onto her. “You know, I haven’t had a decent bath since this war started.”

“I know,” Peggy replied. “I am standing quite close to you, you know. And you are wearing a wool uniform.”

“I could just take it off, if it bothers you,” he replied, the implications of what he had said striking him even as the words left his lips. “I- I mean- well.” His face flushed an even deeper red, and he wondered for a moment if the floor would be kind enough as to swallow him up.

Peggy laughed, a full and hearty laugh she hadn’t often laughed since the war had begun. “You’d just take off your uniform in my quarters?” she asked, scandalized. “You would take off all your clothes, leaving you in just your… skin?” She reached up to lay a hand against his chest, feeling the heat beneath his clothes. “Why, Captain Rogers, you are truly a sinful man.”

“Not sinful,” he murmured, running his hand up and down her back. “Just… not very well-spoken?”

“Captain Steven Rogers, do not lie to me.” Peggy laughed against his chest and looked up at him with a smile. “You are as well-spoken as any writer or poet when you aren’t near me. Now, how could that be?” She smiled cheekily and delighted in his blush. 

Steve wrapped his arms around her a little tighter, deciding he wouldn’t answer that just yet. He rested his cheek against the side of her head as an advertisement played on the radio, and he smiled at the little tune. He took her hand, and began to sway back and forth, still not moving his feet. His other hand found its way to her lower back, and he held her close to him, warmth bubbling in his chest.

She leaned closer to him, and in that moment, they were both lost. Each ceased to exist without the other, and both were made complete. “When this war is over,” Peggy whispered as she rested her head against his chest. “You and I can have a drink.” She closed her eyes, letting herself get lost in the soft music that now played on the radio.

“A drink?” Steve murmured softly, pressing his lips to her temple as a new feeling swelled in his chest. He loved her, he realized. “Maybe dinner and a drink,” he said softly, feeling her grip tighten around his waist. “Wouldn’t want you to feel cheap.”

She chuckled, and both continued their little sways in silence, each pretending they were dancing beautifully together, perfectly in sync. Their breath nearly matched, and Peggy’s pulse slowed as Steve rocked her back and forth. For once, she felt protected and safe. She had resisted falling for so long. This was war, after all, and many of her comrades in arms would never return home. Steve was no different. Under all the armor, the weapons, and beneath his skin, he was still only a man. A man who could be taken from her at the drop of a hat, by a shift in the cosmic force, by a single stray bullet or a heart attack. Death touched every part of her life, and she found it difficult to pull herself away from its misery and destruction. But, for once, she decided to have just a little faith. She let Steve hold her, both of them oblivious to the alarm that would ring only a few minutes later, signaling another mission that could end either of them.

But they danced.

——

Steve wiped at his eyes as his tears fell, and he wondered if the ache in his chest would ever ease. It wasn’t fair, he thought. They never got their chance to be together, and he hadn’t visited her nearly enough. It was his own selfishness that had kept him away from her. He hadn’t wanted to see her as she was, but now he would give his left arm to see her one last time.

He sat with his head in his hands, wondering what he could have done to deserve his fate. After another long crying jag, he finally stood, deciding it would be better to go home. The last thing he wanted was to have a breakdown in a public bathroom.

He pressed his palms against his eyes, willing the swelling to go down. His hands trembled and his fingernails pressed into his flesh. He inhaled sharply through his nose before letting it out, and splashed water on his face. He wiped his face off with a thin paper towel, and tossed it into the trash can beside the sink. He unlocked the door and tilted his head down, his chin pressed against his chest. 

The next week flew by in a blur, and was filled with condolences from people who remembered Peggy. Sam offered comfort and a shoulder to cry on, but no amount of care could relieve the overwhelming loneliness Steve felt. His final connection to his own time, save for Bucky, had been severed.

He lay spread out on the sofa, his shirt untucked and his tie pulled into a loose knot around his neck. The glassy-eyed stare he’d worn for the past week was still stuck on his face, and he watched the blades of Sam’s ceiling fan spin in circles over his head. He didn’t pay much attention to Sam as he began fixing Steve’s clothes for him.

“Come on, man,” Sam adjusted his own tie before tucking Steve’s shirt into his pants, stuffing it down past his belt. “We have to go.”

Steve looked away from Sam, casting his eyes down as if the other man were invisible. He could count twenty words he’d spoken since learning of Peggy’s death, most of which were ‘yes’, ‘no’ and ‘I don’t know’. 

Sam worried his lip between his teeth and reached up to cup Steve’s chin in his hands, brushing his thumbs over his cheeks. “Hey,” He tapped Steve’s stubbled cheek until their eyes met. “You just have to get through three hours, Steve. That’s it. We can come home and you can do whatever you need to do. But I need you to be with me on this, alright? Peg wouldn’t want you moping around at her funeral.”

“Peg doesn’t want anything anymore,” Steve turned his face away from Sam, but not before his words could sink in. He knew, in some deep part of his soul, that Peggy wouldn’t want him to be miserable. She had lived a full, rich life without him. She had a husband, two children, countless friends and pets.

There had been family barbecues, vacations. Once, her son and his wife sent her on a cruise to Alaska. He wondered if they knew the Arctic circle wasn’t a site of good memories for her, but he didn’t imagine Peggy spoke very often of him as her lover. Or maybe - and he knew it was selfish to hope - she hadn’t minded, because she still cared for him. Not loved him, of course. Her love was reserved for the man she married, not the man she tried to talk out of crashing a plane.

She’d had a husband, God rest his soul, who adored her until his dying day. Her friends spoke so highly of her, calling her a darling to be around. And her children loved her, as most children loved their parents. She told him countless stories of them, and he listened despite the way her face would go slack in the middle of a story, and silence would fill the room. Did her children visit her, he often wondered. Was it painful for them to see her that way? He imagined so. Even someone with hardly a soul would feel a little sadness for Peggy. Her children obviously loved her very much, to make sure she was so well taken care of.

It surprised him that neither of them showed up to her funeral.


	4. Chapter 4

It took twelve days, seven hours, and approximately eighteen minutes for Steve Rogers to realize Peggy Carter’s entire life was a lie.

Her two children lived on opposite sides of the country, under different names. Neither of them were married, or had children themselves. And their names didn’t show up on anything except for passports and driver’s licenses. No credit cards, no bank statements, or house payments. It was as if neither of them actually existed.

The photographs in her room, upon closer inspection, were carefully posed. He thought the photos just caught her in a bad light, but as he sat on Sam’s couch, flipping through photo after photo, he began to notice a pattern.

Peggy’s eyes had never been exactly symmetrical. The left drooped a tad lower than the right, and both lids were hooded. But every photo of her since his disappearance, both eyelids were smooth, and her eyes were symmetrical. It couldn’t have been a camera trick. The photos ranged from old film, to instant, to digital quality. His thoughts drifted back to when he had seen her last, and he closed his eyes. Had she said anything out of place?

“Of course she did,” he thought. “She had fucking Alzheimer’s. Every other sentence she said made no sense.” But he couldn’t help but think that there was something very wrong about the situation. He grabbed a notebook and began scribbling down facts, his head bent over the paper as his spine began to ache.

\- dementia/Alzheimer’s: official diagnosis? Medical records?  
\- children: why the names? The photos? Why weren’t they at the funeral?  
\- plastic surgery not available when the photo was taken. Doctored?

His pencil scratched against the notebook paper, and he chewed half the skin off his lips before he realized there was a hand on his shoulder, shaking him. He looked up and found himself nose-to-nose with Sam. “What?”

“You haven’t eaten anything all day,” Sam said, lifting the tray of food in his hands. “I made you noodles. ‘Cause I didn’t have enough of anything to get you your calorie fix for the day. So you can have the last five packages of ramen. And I put some vegetables in there so you don’t get scurvy four blocks from a grocery store.”

Steve realized he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and that had only been the twelve eggs Sam coaxed into him. “Thanks,” he said, setting the notebook aside before taking the tray. He drank in the scent of the spicy broth, and dipped his spoon into the bowl. It was big enough to fit on his head, and he could have sworn he heard Sam call it a trough once. 

Sam sat down beside Steve and patted his back, then set the notebook aside. “How are you doing?” he asked, giving Steve’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You can’t stay shut up in here forever.”

Steve glared at him through a mouthful of noodles, but his expression softened after he swallowed. “I know,” he said. “At least I showered.”

“Good for you,” Sam said, watching as Steve polished off the entire bowl in no more than ten minutes. “Take it easy. You may be Cap, but I’m pretty sure all that salt will kill you.”

“You fed it to me,” Steve said as he set the tray aside and picked up his notebook. He began writing again, and Sam squeezed his shoulder. “Steve,” he said, shaking his head. “You really need to think about letting this go.” He wanted to be supportive, but he was afraid Steve would set himself up for disaster if he kept it up.

“Listen,” he said. “I can’t imagine how you feel right now. I’m not going to feed you some line about how it’ll all be fine if you keep your chin up. Grief hurts, and it hurts for a long damn time. But you can’t let this take over your life. You haven’t been out of this house since we got back from Peggy’s funeral. It’s been almost two weeks, Steve.”

Steve let his pencil trace in small lines over the paper, and a squiggly line soon turned to a curl, then a jaw, a neck, and soon enough Peggy’s profile had been sketched on the page. “I was asleep for seventy years,” he said. “The world can do without me for two weeks.”

“It’s not about the world, man,” Sam laid his hand over Steve’s, giving it a squeeze. “I’m worried about you. I know you. I know you look for evidence in everything, for a reason. I get that, I do. But you’re going to torture yourself with this.” Their eyes met, and Sam held the eye contact. “I’m afraid you’re going to lose the progress you’ve made because you want to find answers in something that doesn’t have any.”

“But there is something.” Steve said, flipping the notebook back and pulling out a photo of Peggy. She’d kept it on her nightstand, and he assumed it was her favorite. She was sitting on a sofa next to her two children, and all three were smiling at the camera. “This doesn’t look right. Her eyes aren’t right.”

“What are you talking about?”

Steve sighed. “Her eyes, they’re symmetrical. Peg’s weren’t. And her teeth.” He squinted at the grin Peggy held in the photo. “She was missing her back teeth. Dentistry was terrible back in our day, don’t let anyone tell you about the good old days. These are perfect. Hers were,” he thought back fondly, remembering how Peggy’s teeth were stained from lipstick and too much coffee. “Normal.”

Sam sighed, and patted Steve’s shoulder. He did find it suspicious, but Peggy was a chameleon. She could switch her eye color if she was determined enough, at least that’s what he’d heard about her. “What’s the alternative to her being dead, Steve? Do you think she’s still alive somewhere? Witness protection or something,” he squeezed Steve’s shoulder. “If you think the real Peggy is out there somewhere, do you think she’s even still alive?”

Steve hadn’t thought about that. It was entirely possible that, even if this wasn’t the real Peggy, that his Peggy was long gone. He couldn’t give up hope, though: it was the only thing holding his fragile heart together, by tiny strings that could break at any moment. He leaned over and rested his had on Sam’s shoulder, closing his eyes. “You’re right,” he said. “And I know how stupid it is, I just- I want her back. It’s not fucking fair.”

“I know, man,” Sam wrapped an arm around Steve’s shoulder. “It’s not fair. Nothing that happened to you is fair. You didn’t have any control over it. Sometimes shit just goes down, and everybody’s worse for it.”

“Seems like the serum has done fuck-all for me,” Steve said, glancing up at Sam. “I mean, except for letting me meet you. And my team. And I saw Bucky again.”

Sam nodded and patted Steve’s shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “That’s what I like about you, Steve,” he said. “You always look on the bright side of things. And don’t give me that broody bullshit where you pretend you aren’t optimistic, because I know you better than that.” He grinned and tapped Steve’s cheek, earning him a smile.

A warm feeling washed over Steve, caught somewhere between playfulness and affection. He liked it more than he ought to. “I only look on the bright side because the bright side has people like you in it.” He said.

“People like me are usually the way they are because of people like you.” Sam said.

“Wait,” Steve said, squinting at Sam. “You’re- I- God, forget it. You confuse me.” He leaned against Sam and rested his head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It was strong and healthy, a steady thump-thump under his ribs. He closed his eyes, listening for a long moment. It wasn’t weird for either of them, not really. Sam liked the company, and Steve never passed up a chance to cuddle. The warmth of other bodies made him feel alive. Feeling like a corpse was an unfortunate side effect of being frozen solid for nearly seven decades. 

Sam rubbed Steve’s back in small circles, resting his chin atop Steve’s head. “I like to confuse you. Keeps you sharp, old man,” he said, toying with Steve’s hair. “Besides, you’d be a mess if it weren’t for me. You’d still be boiling everything you ate.”

“Ha,” Steve looked up at Sam. “Peggy used to tease me about that. Said my pale Irish ass couldn’t season anything.”

“She’s right, you can’t season for shit.”

“You’re so obnoxious,” Steve said with a roll of his eyes. He rested his head on Sam’s shoulder, and took a deep breath. “I think I’m going to go take a shower.” He glanced back at his notebook, and decided his investigation could wait until he’d washed his hair.


	5. Chapter 5

Peggy ran a hand through her hair, and she pulled a plastic shower cap over her scalp before peeling latex gloves off her hands. “Goodbye, blonde,” she said to the empty hotel bathroom as she tossed the gloves into the garbage can. “And good riddance.” She sat on the edge of the tub, and checked her watch, wishing the hair dye would do its job faster. She cupped her chin in her hands and looked up at the mirror, knowing she should change her makeup before she checked out of the hotel.

She opened her laptop and pulled up one of her playlists, deciding on a bit of vintage music to set the mood. She made a face as she lined her eyebrows, making a mental note to never bleach them again. “You always hurt the one you love,” she sang to herself as she moved to line her eyes. “The one you shouldn’t hurt at all.”

Her thoughts drifted to Steve, and the thought of him made her throat close up. The call had come in earlier that her replacement had served her purpose, and the agent playing her had died a week before she was set to return. Though, there wasn’t much to return to, at this point.

She clenched her jaw as she contoured her face, thinking back on the things she’d accomplished the past seventy years. Destroying H.Y.D.R.A bases, infiltrating their ranks, fighting wars. It had all been for nothing, because they were in her agency all along. The thought made her so angry, she couldn’t think straight. She tried to avoid thinking about it for her own sanity.

The music played softly, and she sighed again, brushing blush over the apples of her cheeks. Word of Steve’s rescue and resurrection had reached her almost two full months after it happened, and at the time, she was too far deep into her cover to come back out again. That had been for nothing, too, considering she had no agency to come back to when she was finished with her final mission. She’d only seen a few pictures of him, but they were still all taped to the inside of her laptop case, and newspaper clippings filled a small diary hidden in her suitcase. 

It didn’t take long for her to make her exit, and, once on board her flight, she let herself relax. She had changed her face, adding fine lines and a few sun spots. She made sure to age her hands as well. That was a rookie mistake she would never make again. Her makeup kit was her third greatest weapon.

She glanced out the window, resting her head against the glass as she waited for takeoff. Plane rides always made her anxious, and it never got any easier when the plane filled with people. So many voices, breaths, lives. Sometimes she found herself wondering about them, like she wondered about Steve. How many people had they known in their lifetime? She began listing names in her head, from her parents to the people who served her coffee every morning. And the people she loved.

She had made her way up to just over three hundred names already, and that only just covered her family, her friends and their families. She had so many friends, most of which were gone now. She stretched, and shifted in her seat before glancing out the window, finding that she was still on the tarmac. The flight had been delayed. “Fantastic.”

“Amen.” A voice beside her said, and Peggy turned to look. An elderly woman was sat beside her, fingers piled high with rings and a scarf tied around her head. Peggy tried not to think about how her face must have lit up at the sight of her, and instead just smiled as she shifted in her seat. “Are we stranded?” she asked, propping her elbow up on her armrest. “Or is the guest of honor on this flight just late?”

The woman laughed, and Peggy felt her heart swell at the sound. Perhaps this flight wouldn’t be so lonely after all. “I wouldn’t accept anything less than Marlon Brando in his birthday suit. When he was still good-looking.” She said, her voice heavy and thick: a smoker’s voice.

“Mm, Marlon Brando,” Peggy said, cupping her chin in her hands as she sighed. “It’s been a long time since anyone mentioned him to me. Such a handsome man.” She smiled at the other woman, and extended her hand, wondering if the woman could even lift her hand with all those rings on. “I’m Peggy, by the way.”

The woman smiled and shook Peggy’s hand, bracelets jangling on her wrist. “You’re Peggy? But I’m a Peggy,” She laughed. “If you’re Peggy, and I’m Peggy-”

“Then who’s flying the plane?”

“Exactly,” She said. “Call me Margaret. Never could stand that name, though. Mama, god rest her soul, couldn’t name a primary color, let alone a child.”

Peggy burst out laughing, and found that she couldn’t catch her breath for another few moments. “Oh, god,” She wiped a tear from her eye, and smiled. “Was your mother also mine? She never let anyone call me by a nickname. I think that’s why I use mine now, even professionally. It’s just something I’ve grown to hate.”

They talked until the plane was ready to take off, and resumed their conversation once they were in the air. In the hours it took to fly from London to New York, Peggy learned more about her seat companion than she thought she ever would. She was an artist, like Steve had been, and could talk for hours about the impact of art on society. Peggy listened intently, hanging on every word. They laughed about the old days, neither asking the other their age. They had no need to, for once the plane ride was over, it was likely they’d be strangers again. But Peggy decided she was going to enjoy this connection, this time with another person from her own time. Her real time.

After a few glasses of wine for Peggy, and a scotch - neat - for Margaret, they settled into their seats, still talking as half the plane slept. “Have you ever modeled?” Margaret asked, apropos of nothing. “You’re a tall drink of water.”

“I’d rather be a tall glass of vodka, but I’ll take it,” Peggy said. “No, I’ve never modeled. Never been involved with much art, actually. My-” she thought for a moment on what to call Steve. “My boyfriend has. Went to college for it and everything.”

“But is he any good?” Margaret took another sip of her scotch. “Does he put passion into what he does?”

“I don’t know,” Peggy said, chewing her bottom lip. “I haven’t seen him in a very long time. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you why.”

Margaret didn’t pry, and Peggy was grateful for that. “Well,” she said, taking another small sip of her scotch. “Art’s more about what you put down than the skill you’ve got. Anybody can be taught to draw, but real art isn’t something you can teach to just anybody. That third sight stuff you hear people talking about? It’s like that.”

Peggy nodded, and after awhile both women fell silent. Peggy chose to sleep the remaining few hours on the flight, and awoke to the abrupt jolts of landing. She swore and gripped her seat as the plane slowed to a stop, hearing the woman next to her uttering similar expletives. Soon enough it was over, and they were saying their goodbyes, having exchanged phone numbers with promises to talk again.

Peggy left the plane feeling much lighter than when she’d first boarded.


End file.
